


after all we've endured

by Debate



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Apologetic Cunnilingus, Canon Compliant, Episode: s06e03 The Children of Gabriel, F/M, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Makeup Sex, Porn with Feelings, maybe angst? idk its just soft really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 04:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: Emori has quickly learned that survival and life on Sanctum are very different than they had been on Earth. It’s good to return to something familiar. Even after so much time.[Feelsy sex post 6.03]





	after all we've endured

**Author's Note:**

> If the show won't show them having makeup sex (or engaged sex!!) then I guess the responsibility falls to me. Enjoy :D

Night on Sanctum isn’t like night on Earth. The sky never quite fades to black like it’s supposed to. Instead it lingers in a deep shade of violet from the effects of two suns. Stars still break through the sky but they’re different from the ones Emori has known all her life. She knows it’s because they are hundreds of thousands of miles from the planet she was born on, but the unfamiliar lights overhead still leave Emori in a state of frightened awe. There’s no north star here, and the possibility of getting lost sits heavy on her mind. 

Some things aren’t so different though, apparently the days are only twenty seven minutes longer than on Earth, and Sanctum’s people have similar nightly routines. By anyone’s standards it’s well past the time to be in bed at this late hour. 

“Hey,” Emori says, shifting her gaze back to John after taking her fill of the view from the open window. “We should go to bed.” 

John’s spent most of the day brooding and Emori can’t blame him, he’d been dead for a couple of minutes this morning. The red in his eyes and the sudden gauntness of his face make it impossible to deny. 

“I’m not tired,” John replies and Emori has to refrain from rolling her eyes. He said that all the time on the Ring, during weeks filled with pacing in anxious circles in the dead of night followed by long days where he would do nothing but lie in bed. Emori has to remind herself that this is different. He’d been dead this morning. 

“I was unconscious most of the day, you’ll remember.” He reminds her too, as if she could forget. She can still feel the claminess of his skin under her palm, feels her heart spike with guilt every time her eyes catch on the bandage across his arm. She reaches out to touch his hand, to confirm he’s warm now. Maybe she’s the one who needs sleep more. 

“Well there’s no point in sitting here in the dark,” she tries. Everyone else has cleared out to the rooms upstairs, and he stopped drinking an hour ago, too lazy to pour for himself. 

John lets his gaze rest on their held hands for a long moment before his eyes rise to meet hers and he offers a tight-lipped smile and stunted nod. 

He grunts as he stands, like someone twice his actual age, and slings his arm heavily over her shoulders as they make their way towards the stairs. 

“Are you still drunk?” 

“I’m not drunk, ‘Mori” John says, lying either to himself or her. Then straightening a bit when he realizes he gave himself away with the use of the nickname. “Maybe a little,” he admits, “I just don’t wanna dream.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” She offers for the second time that day. Curiosity and worry have been burning inside since he woke up but she won’t push him. 

“Not yet,” he says, an improvement from the previous horrified ‘no’ of the afternoon. They make it up the stairs without any stumbles and trudge to the end of the hallway, all the other rooms already claimed. 

Under normal circumstances Emori would scout out the room given to them by these strangers, but it’s small, with a narrow bed as the only notable furnishing, and she’s just exhausted enough not to care. 

John flops onto the bed in a way that’s unsuitable for someone claiming not to be tired, but Emori knows him better than himself sometimes so she’s not surprised. He kicks off his boots carelessly. 

“Are you gonna stay here tonigh’?” The tiredness is creeping into his voice now. Emori shrugs off her jacket, lets it hang on the doorknob and sets her boots next to John’s. 

“Of course I am. Scooch over.” 

The bed is still narrow as she lies on it, but Emori thinks it is a poor attempt form Sanctum to get them to spend their nights apart. She molds her body to curl next to John’s and they fit. 

“Didn’t know if you would,” John admits to the ceiling, both of his arms still too injured to hold his weight on one side. Confusion rises above Emori’s exhaustion. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

John’s eyes fall closed but Emori doesn’t want to escape from this conversation, from whatever’s eating at him, she knows it will only cause problems. She tugs on his sleeve and his eyes open and turn to look at her. Bloodshot still, but softer too.

“Been a long time since we shared a bed.” 

It has been. Six months of clenching her blanket tight to herself to make up for the loss of familiar body heat as she tried to sleep, then a mess of circumstance and feelings that led to their bodies close but nowhere near touching as they shared a cave with a mass murderer. One hundred and twenty five years have passed since then and Emori would love to make a joke about the century they slept through, but it’s impossible to do so without thinking of Harper and Monty and things not to be joked about. 

“Yeah,” Emori agrees, something tight festering in her chest. It’s been even longer since she held him like this in their bed and he doesn’t smell like she remembers. It makes her sad. 

She tilts her head up to look at him and sees so many different layers of pain pile on his face, like snow collecting on a drift that won’t ever melt. He’s drunk and lost and Emori feels the same as how she had too many times in space, totally unknowing what to do. 

But John still has ways of surprising her. 

“You know I’m sorry for pushing you away. For making you feel…” He drifts off, and maybe that had been part of the problem, of him not knowing what she was feeling, and her not telling him. But he meets her eyes for the first time since they’d lied down and true regret lingers in his irises. “I never, never wanted that ‘Mori.”

Her first instinct is to say, ‘I know,’ but that’s not true. She hadn’t known. 

“I didn’t want it either,” she says instead, the truth, despite the words standing opposite to both their broken hearts. But Emori knows how to fix them. “I forgive you. I already have.” She doesn’t think about if it’s too easily done, if it’s just because the Earth blew up or because he died this morning. It’s what she feels, and she won’t deny it. 

He hugs her closer, rests his forehead against the curve of her skull. “I love you.”

“I love you.” 

His breathing evens into a familiar tempo and she relaxes into his body, into the soft bed. But John’s not quite asleep yet. 

“You’re hair smells nice.” 

She laughs lightly, her hand coming to rest on top of his. 

She imagines the buzzing of a swarm in her ears before she falls asleep. 

Emori wakes slowly, in opposition to her normal habit. She hasn’t a notion of what time it is. Dawn on Sanctum is brighter than on Earth, more akin to midday. 

If she dreamed during the night she remembers nothing, but there’s a warmth in her stomach rising through her chest and settling her mind. Probably from the place John’s palm rests. 

“You awake?” John asks, turning his head so his voice drips against the shell of her ear. She hums in response. 

“You hungover?” 

“Nah,” he says, shifts a little to hug her closer, his fingertips playing with the hem of her t-shirt. “My mouth’s a little fuzzy, though.” 

“I can get you some water?” 

“No,” he says, like a child might, except there’s a thick edge to the syllable that tightens in her belly the same way the palm of his hand does to keep her close. 

Her eyes close again but she’s very awake now, she settles back fully into the bed and her stillness lets her feel her heartbeat in her chest and throat. John’s fingers are beneath her shirt now, on that soft, sometimes ticklish part of her belly. It feels so nice, and she finally no longer feels clouded and confused with emotion. 

It makes it easy to turn over and kiss him. Not soft and lingering like she maybe should have made it, but making him gasp, pressing and seeking with her tongue. 

And it's not that she missed him really. He was always there, just around the corner, hiding under the parts of him she resented, or mirrored in the eyes of the others when the seat next to hers was empty at dinner. She had missed this though. His hands and lips on her neck and chest. Had dreamed about it a few times and woken up frustrated and angry with herself. 

And it hadn't even been about the sex really, but the intimacy. Something that had ended months before they broke up. She craves it now, though. Their bodies being so close a knife couldn't slip between them. Having confidence he loves her without condition. 

She knows that their thinking is still aligned because in that moment he tugs her over his closer by her waist, fingers rucking her shirt up highso that their chests run along each other as they breathe. She threads her fingers around the back of his neck to angle his head as they share kisses, sometimes pressing them into his jaw or beneath his ear, but always returning to his mouth and the low grateful hum that passes from his lips. It might almost be called leisurely if it weren't for his hands at her lower back, keeping her steady so that their hips could stay locked together. 

He’s hard already, not surprising considering the rush of his breath, how she can feel his heartbeat through his skin. Through his clothes even. She throbs, in that place where he isn’t, like her body might be able to latch onto the emptiness. 

His hands are warmer than she remembers them being. She sighs into his mouth, the sound more desperate than she knew a sigh could be.

“You want this?” John asks, his voice the way it used to get when he was in awe of her. Under the waistband of her pants his fingertips caress her skin. 

“Yes,” she says, his shirt mangled in her grip. She thinks about what being back down on Earth had done to her. Thinks about standing next to him and seeing the confident tilt of his mouth and calculating gleam in his eye. How the want had needled in her brain and pounded in her ribcage and clenched between her thighs. And now how it pales in comparison. “I want you,” she says into the corner of his mouth. 

He says her name, the word spilling off his tongue like some secret admission and she kisses him, tongue tracing his bottom lip so she might be able to catch the feeling falling from his lips. 

His hands trace further up her back and she sits ups, rocking her hips against him before peeling her shirt and sports bra off, feeling that old presence of comfort and pride as his eyes trace over her appreciatively. 

It stands in contrast to the way her own hands hesitate at his waist. She’s never been afraid of his scars before; had liked them even, the reminder of his ability to endure. But she’s never been the cause of any of them before. 

“Hey,” he says, rests his palms over her knuckles, “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.” That can’t be quite true because they’re both careful not to stretch his arms too high as his shirt if pulled off. But he smiles when her hands find balance on his shoulders, his own spanning high on her waist and tracing the undersides of her breasts. And he’s still smiling when she leans down to kiss him and she knows he doesn’t resent her. 

Not like he could when she starts rocking against him, shifting a bit until she finds the right drag against his cock. Insistence grows fast in her as she grinds down and her lips trace down his neck to the sharp point of his collarbones. 

John rubs the sensitive place on the very lowest part of her back and then whimpers when her knees tighten on either side of his waist. His hands become frisky, tugging at her belt loops  
She’s wet. She’s so wet and he’s barely touched her. She’s aching, a wound that’s healed can still hurt. Her eyelids are trembling in an effort to stay open as his hands skim over her thighs, but she manages to keep watch him touch her until he leans over and breathes hot over that one place on her jugular that makes her shiver. 

His other hand works beneath her, pressing between her shoulder blades and making her arch up to meet his mouth as he sucks a mark onto her collarbone.

Her hands begin to slide up from his hips as he moves lower. Her touch lingers where new scar tissue mars his shoulder. She traces the two circles with her thumb, will do it with her mouth later, his body is so familiar, but the bullet wounds remind her that they’re both different now, both new people. 

His thumbs on her hip bones don’t feel different, though. And neither does his breath on her inner thigh. 

The anticipation mounts in her chest and between her legs, because she knows what he's going to do next. Because she wants it. That variance of pressure on her clit before he slicks a finger inside her has her legs trembling before he even starts. 

“John.” She says his name, a half moan, a reaffirmation of where they are, who they are. 

A sound, from deep in his gut passes his lips to imprint on her skin. His breath is more hurried than she would expect, making her shiver as it ghosts across her. 

He kisses the v of her legs, soft, fleeting, as he urges her legs further apart, and she gasps despite the briefness. She thought she was too wet for slow and gentle, too wired for his touch after a century and six months to be coaxed into anything languid, but John seems to insist on it, his mouth hot and exploratory against her folds reminding her of those days in space when he’d do this for hours. She whimpers. There’s no hesitance after that, just his tongue pressed against her entrance and flicking once before licking up her center. Then he laps at her clit, light, like she knew he would. 

“Yes,” she says, unable to stop her hips from circling against his mouth. His hand finds her hip to keep her steady, and then drags down the outside of her thigh, not venturing between them like she thought. He reaches for her hand instead, interlocks their fingers even if they don’t fit in any traditional way. She holds on tight to him. 

He places a kiss where her nerves are singing and she feels the burst of pleasure it creates squirming up her spine. A choked sound falls from her lips and her eyes open halfway to see him perched between her legs, and of course he’s looking up at her. But he’s not looking at her with that focus or determination she found so attractive. Instead it’s a caring most people don’t know he has. He just loves her. 

Her eyes squeeze shut as her jaw works uselessly, her precipe suddenly so much closer. He doesn’t go any faster, just presses a little harder, tongue lapping at her clit, circling her hip bone with her thumb, and then she’s there. She cries out, her skin abuzz with pleasure and her entire body feeling both heavy and light as she clenches around nothing, muscles in her thighs tightening as they seek to press together and open wider all at once.

Words rise and die in her throat as her legs shake before a comfort begins to grow next to her heart. John’s hand is still in hers. His thumb stroking over her knuckles is what recenters her.

“I love you,” she says between pants, because she doesn’t think he’ll say it first, and she wants to hear it. “I love you.”

He steals her breath with another kiss, words mumbled against her lips, but the shape of them familiar. “I love you,” he says with his hungry mouth, arms snaked around her back. 

She clings to him for a moment, still feeling dazed and a little lovesick. It’s a good position to run her hands through his hair the way he likes, and an even better one to wrangle him onto his back in before pressing kisses to the side of his neck. 

“Emori. Emori, can we…” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she breathes into his skin, reaching down to find him still hard against the slide of her palm. 

Her lips press a sort-of kiss against his forehead as she shifts up, bracing herself more firmly on her knees before sinking onto him a soft keen torn from her throat with the motion. John’s thumb strokes her cheek, his mouth open and breath hot against her chin as she starts to move against him like a wave, steady and rolling, hard and crashing at the end. The length of him in her comforts her in a way she hadn’t anticipated, enticing the burn in her belly and in her heart both. 

“Fuck, Emori, I-” John groans, his hands skittering from her waist to her ass to her thighs, nails scratching lightly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. It makes her shudder, clench around him. “God, I’m not gonna last long. Fuck.” 

His eyes close the next time she rolls her hips down, as if to prove her point. Emori moves a bit faster, tries to match the rhythm of his uneven thrusts, caught in her desire to study the vulnerability he displays right before he comes. It makes her feel warm all over, his trust, his love. She traces his jaw with her big hand, and the muscles in his throat twitch before he groans and breaks, his arms wrapping her in an embrace as she feels him warm and slick deep inside her. 

She rocks shallowly against him twice more before slipping off his lap and tucking herself into his open arms. 

“You’re amazing, really,” John says into her hair with his little satisfied smirk. The praise sparks hot in her chest as she presses closer to his heat. 

There is little innocence and not a small amount of hunger in the way his hands continue to pass over her body, and Emori is more than considering responding to the touches but she wants to linger for a moment. One where she doesn’t have to think about anything other than the way John is looking at her and the peculiarity of mornings on this moon.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this aft 5.08 aired if you can believe that so this fic (or at least the sexy bits) has been a wip for a long time (which is why there is s5 era angst mixed in with the s6 era angst) so I would love to hear what you think!


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